Candles in Windows, Paint on my Hands
by WaitingForWonderland
Summary: "Like every child in Beacon Hills, Stiles knew the story of the Hale children's disappearance..." Beacon Hills is the kind of place where bad things don't happen. This is a fact as obvious as 'the sun is hot'. Except now children are disappearing without a trace, and there is nothing the town can do but mourn, and leave a light to guide them home.


Just because Beacon Hills was fairly large as towns go, did not mean it was a bad place. It was large yes, but pretty isolated - surrounded by thick, dense forests on almost every single side.

This isolation drove the people of Beacon Hills to band together, to cause the sort of familiarity between each and every resident that was more common in smaller towns, with less people and less space. This kind of closeness meant there was very little in the way of crime and disruption in the every day life of your average resident.

The worst thing Sheriff Stilinski been called to was a tragic case where two kids had skidded off a snowy road and totalled their car, with them still inside. That had been in his first year as a deputy, and there were still candles lit for them every single christmas, and on their birthdays.

So Beacon Hills was small in its largeness, and nothing bad ever really happened there.

Until.

Until a fire set in a house on the edge of town killed 18 people, and only two young kids survived while their family burned. Until three days later those two kids, only 10 and 12 years old, disappeared into thin air, leaving no trace of them ever really having been there in the first place.

The disappearance of the Hale kids had the town on a sort of child lockdown. No child was left unsupervised for months, a roll call was taken every hour at schools, and parks were abandoned for almost six whole months. The police department, along with the whole of the town, looked high and low for those two kids. They exhausted leads, followed every tip (no matter how usless it was) and in the end, had nothing to show for it.

So after months of nothing, the town went back to life as normal, even if in every single house, two candles were always lit to burn through the night, to guide the children home.

...

Like every child in Beacon hills, Stiles knew the story of the Hale children's disappearance. He had been six at the time of their disappearing, and he hadn't understood why everyone was so worried about it, because what bothered the adults never really touched him.

At the time, all he knew was that everybody seemed scared and he wasn't allowed to play outside any more. As he grew older, he began to understand more and more about why the adults had been so scared, and he realised why there were always candles burning in peoples windows, from the richest families like the Whittmores and Martins, to the poorest, like the Laheys.

Even four years later when it was most likely that the Hale children were dead, people lit the candles to show that they hadn't been forgotten. Those lost children from the town that was small in its largeness.

So Stiles understood, but didn't really understand until one night his father got a call at dinner, that made him go pale and made his eyes shoot straight to the candles at the window.

The call had been from the parents of one 'Vernon Boyd' who hadn't come home from when he went to the park that afternoon. Stiles knew Vernon, who just liked to be called Boyd. He was very quiet, and often sat by himself, but that didn't stop Stiles - and Scott by extension - from always including him when the teacher told them to get into groups. He liked Superman, and chocolate milk, his favourite colour was green, and he was allergic to shellfish.

Unlike a great majority of the kids in Beacon Hills, Stiles could say without lying that, yes, he knew Boyd, and yes they were friendly if not friends.

Within three hours of the call, the town had rallied up, and people were out searching for the missing child, combing the streets and the area of the forest surrounding the park.

Two days later, when no sign of Boyd had been found, and it looked like things were going the same way as it had with the Hales, people added a third candle to their window sills, and Stiles made sure he was the one to light the candles in his house, each and every night.

...

The town had only just relaxed back into it's normal routine when the Sheriff got another desperate call. This one came from the parents of Erica Reyes, and as with the last call, Stiles dad went very pale, and began to stare at the candles at the window.

When he told Stiles and his wife who the call came from, his parent got the shock of their lives when Stiles began to cry just a little. He hadn't been friends with Erica really, but he had always felt bad about the way the rest of the school made fun of her for having seizures. The cookies he made every two weeks like clockwork were cookies he then left in Erica's bag, and even now the latest batch was cooling on the bench.

To try calm Stiles down, they called Melissa McCall to ask if Scott could please come stay the night. At first she was wary because it was a school night, but after hearing about the situation as a whole, she joined her son, sleeping in the guest room of the Stilinski household.

While the town searched for another missing child, Scott and Stiles sat up in Stiles room, and frowned very hard at the piece of paper stretched in front of them. It had been Scott's idea, which was surprising because it was sort of a brilliant one, and Scott had beamed when Stiles called him a genius.

Scott had gotten the idea off his uncle, who's best friend was currently serving overseas for the marines. "Your Aunt Trish is a beautiful artist Scotty, and her paintings look like photographs. So she painted this one of Ricky in his uniform, and told me that as long as i had the painting, Ricky would always be here." Scott's uncle had said with a sappy grin, and Scott had shrugged it off as adult stuff.

Until kids he went to school with began disappearing.

"Maybe if we kept paintings of them safe, they'll stay safe? Like my Uncle and that painting of Ricky?" Scott had pondered almost absently, and Stiles had jumped on the idea.

Although Scott was absolutely one hundred percent hopeless at drawing even stick figures, Stiles was actually fairly good at drawing, but this was still a bit beyond his level, as the multiple scribbled out drawings were proving to both boys.

Stiles mother called the two off them downstairs to light the candles, and Stiles pretended that his heart didn't thud a little painfully when he counted four instead of the usual three.

He would make those paintings, he decided, if it was the last thing he did.

...

Only a week after Erica disappeared, so did Isaac Lahey.

Stiles knew that another child was missing the second his dad got the call. The Sheriff had been looking worse every day the search for Erica turned up nothing, eyes ringed and bagged, face pale and drawn into harsh lines that made him seem older and more hopeless than anyone had ever seen him.

When the Sheriff took the call, Stiles exchanged a look with his mother, one filled with pain and worry, and more than a little bit of fear. This was the third child to dissapear in eight months, and everybody was terrified they had a serial child napper on their hands.

After he hung up the call, the family of three sat in silence for a few moments, before the sheriff rose and went to the draw where they kept the candles, adding yet another to the sill. This made five candles for five children, and he lit it without saying a word, watching as the wick caught and burned. Stiles watched as his mother walked over and wrapped her arms around him, and when he heard his fathers choked whisper of 'another one Aria, and I don't know what to do' he quietly slipped away, padding upstairs to his room.

That night, he stole photo's from his fathers case files, and sketched until his eyes blurred and his hand ached, drawing five children over and over and over again with a single minded focus he rarely possesed. He fell asleep with photos and drawings scattered around him, and when his parents came in to check on him, that was how they found him.

Pencil smudges on his face, one hand clasping said pencil, while the other lay protectively over a picture perfect drawing of five kids, their names written in a childlike scrawl beneath their faces.

For a moment, they marvelled at the realistic quality of the drawings, and then John scooped his son off the floor with a grunt, carrying him down the hall and into their bed. Stiles might be eleven years old, but just for tonight, he would sleep with them.

Just so they knew he was safe.

...

After Isaac Lahey, the town was never really normal again. Nobody wanted to believe anyone had taken the children, but it seemed impossible that all five had just wandered off of their own voalition. It just wasn't logical.

So when six months passed, and not a single child disappeared, every parent was still wary, and there was a town wide curfew of 9.30 for anyone under the age of eighteen.

People still lit candles for the children, though it got to the point where it was now usually a single candle - five on one window sill was a bit of a fire hazard. Stiles and Scott never forgot their idea of the paintings keeping them safe, and it became common practise for Stiles to be painting while Scott sat and watched, sometimes talking, sometimes just marvelling at the sheer focus that Stiles had when it came to this project.

Stiles had made him promise to be one hundred percent honest when it came to the paintings, and it took months and months of practise till Stiles could paint just one that Scott could say (without lying) looked exactly like Laura Hale, the oldest of the missing children.

Though Stiles parents knew about the drawings Stiles would still sometimes do, the two of them had guarded this secret fiercely, keeping the idea of the paintings close to their chest. It was just after Scott's twelfth birthday that Stiles finished the last of the five, and the two of them lay each painting out and stared at them, ridiculously proud.

Stiles had done all the painting, but Scott had been the one to write each of the childrens names down the bottom, along with the dates they went missing. Above each of the fives heads, he had also painstakingly written the word 'safe' in perfect link, and the resulting image looked ridiculously good, if they did say so themselves.

The town had a memorial dedicated to the children inside the town hall, and when the next town meeting was held, the two asked the sheriff if they could please attend, using their best puppy dog faces to get the man to agree. He had almost balked when the two of them walked out to the Cruiser carrying the cloth covered paintings, but nonetheless he let them come with him.

Most of the town turned up to the meetings, and Stiles and Scott weren't the only children to attend. They sat surprisingly quietly and attentively throughout the usual hum-drum business that was discussed, though Stiles was practically vibrating in his seat.

It wasn't till right at the end when Mayor Mahealani asked if anyone had anything they would like to discuss that he went still, eyes scanning the room apprehensively before he stuck his hand up. He ignored his fathers hiss to stick his hand down, and instead stared directly at the Mayor hoping he wouldn't just think this was some big joke.

When the Mayor good-naturedly asked Stiles what was on his mind, he cleared his throat and dragged Scott to his feet, the two of them carting the still covered paintings up to the front of the room, where everybody would be able to see them.

"This might take a minute to explain, so just, um, hold on a sec? Yeah." Scott blushed furiously under the crowds gaze and Stiles rolled his eyes a little. Scott was such a doofus.

"See, Scott has this Uncle..." He began, telling the room a shortened version of the Uncles friend and the paintings, trying to ignore the stares and the little whispers that ran through the crowd. "... And well, me and Scott we kind of got this idea, that you know maybe if the paintings of the kids were safe, the kids would be safe too you know?"

He gestured to Scott to hand the first of them to the Mayor, the one of Erica Reyes, who was all toothy grin and blonde curls. He kept his eyes fixed on the mayors face, watching emotions flit across them quick as a flash.

Surprise, disbelief, approval, sorrow, understanding.

The painting was passed around the towns councill, and the two children wordlessly handed over the rest, trying not to grin when the councill began to praise the quality of them.

"Stiles worked on them for months, and then I did the writing, and we were sort of hoping that maybe we could, um, hang them up? You know, like, near the memorial or something? You could say no if you don't like them, but... well, yeah." Scott turned red again, and Stiles nudged his best friends shoulder in wordless support, blushing himself when the paintings were shown to the room in general and the crowd murmered their approval.

"They're brilliant boys. And it's a brilliant idea. We'll hang them as soon as we can get frames for them." Mayor Mahealani called out, his eyes warm and approving. Stiles battled down the urge to cry out in triumoh and instead nodded once in thanks, before dragging Scott over to where his dad stood, tears in his eyes. John Stilinski pulled the two in close for a hug, squeezing them tight.

"Sometimes, you two absolutley amaze me." He said quietly, and the two boys grinned, hugging the man back. They were given extra dessert for the next week after that, and when the paintings were hung right above the memorial, they ran as front page news in the local paper, which both of their parents had framed. If the paintings became something of a town treasure, well, at least they stayed safe.

Now if only the kids would too.

...

It wasn't till they were fourteen that another kid disappeared. Jackson Whittmore, rich kid and general dick-bag to both Scott and Stiles stormed out of his house one day and apparently didn't come back.

At first his parents thought Jackson was just trying to scare them, but even Jackson wasn't stubborn enough to break curfew, and when it reached 10.00 and he still hadn't shown up, they contacted the Sheriff.

Stiles mother had died almost a year ago by that point, and the sheriff had to drop Stiles off at the McCalls so he could go join the search for his sons missing classmate, giving his son a hug for the first time in almost a year before driving off.

As they had with every child, they used police dogs, and searched everywhere they could think of, but they couldn't find him anywhere. They reached out to cops from other towns and implored them to join the search, but even with the added man power, they found nothing.

Within a week of Jacksons disappearance, twelve families moved out of Beacon Hills, too scared for their children to stay in the town anymore.

As much as Stiles disliked Jackson, he still lit a candle for him every night, and locked himself in his bedroom that next weekend, music playing in the background as he sketched and painted meticulously, only stopping when Scott came in and forced him to eat, or when he fell asleep.

As with all the other paintings, Scott put the finishing touches on them, and then helped Stiles carry it to the memorial that next day at seven in the morning.

Alicia Whittmore was there, and she burst into tears when she saw the painting, reaching out and stroking a finger tip down the painted image of her son, before informing the boys that she would find a frame for it and walking off. She cried again when it was hung next to the others, the sixth in a string of lost children.

They made it to school with only minutes to spare, and at lunch were off sitting by themselves as usual when Lydia Martin and Danny Mahealani - Jackson's best friends (and his girlfriend) - walked over.

The two off them hadn't spoken to anyone other than each other since Jackson went missing, and neither of them had ever really spoken to Scott or Stiles before then, so to say they were surprised was a little bit of an understatement. Still, rather than say anything, they just shuffled over so that the two could sit down, and proceeded to eat in near silence for the rest of lunch time - which had Stiles fidgeting twice as much as usual.

It wasn't till the bell rang that Danny reached over and placed a hand on Stiles arm, eyes unashamedly red from where he had cried for his friend.

"Thank you" he said quietly, and Stiles realised that he was talking about the painting. Lydia just kissed him and Scott wordlessly on the cheeks, before hooking her arm with Danny's and walking off.

The remaining two friends stood in silence for a moment, before Scott shook his head as if to clear it, and turned to stare at his best friend.

"Dude." was all Scott said, and Stiles understood exactly what Scott meant. He nodded, and then shook the serious attitude off, telling Scott that they were going to be late, and dragging his friend away.

...

Lydia Martin was next.

Stiles had heard the call come in over the extension, feeling his heart drop as Mrs Martin sobbed into the other end, barely understandable.

Lydia had gone shopping that morning, and they hadn't heard from her since she texted them as she was on her way home, over five hours ago.

Stiles hung up silently, and snuck downstairs into the kitchen, where his pale father had been drinking his coffee and reading the paper. He felt his dads eyes follow him as he wordlessly walked over to the draw where they kept the candles.

Like the majority of the town, they had switched to burning just the one large candle rather than six small ones, but this time he grabbed seven candles, lining them up perfectly on the sill.

He lit them one by one, picturing one child for each candle.

Laura Hale, with a cheeky grin and long black curls.

Derek Hale, with eyes as beautiful as they were difficult to paint, and one dimple in the corner of his mouth.

Vernon Boyd, quiet and calm and deceptively funny.

Erica Reyes, with golden curls and a shy looking smile.

Isaac Lahey, curls a shorter version of Erica's and blue eyes that looked entirely too much like a sad puppy's.

Jackson Whittmore, with perfect features and a grin that lit up his entire face.

And now there was Lydia Martin, with hair like fire and a mind sharp as diamonds.

He heard his dad hang up, and felt a warm hand come down on his shoulder, and he knew his dad was watching the seven flames flicker and burn away the candle wax, just like he was.

Later on - much later on - when Scott finally dragged Stiles out of his painting haze, Stiles learnt that they had found Lydia's car on the side of the road, the windsheild cracked, the doors wide open and blood pooling on the passengers side, and on the grass just outside the door.

The driver of said car was lying dead in his seat, neck having snapped from slamming on the dash when the car had stopped.

The actual physical evidence of Lydia being hurt made people think maybe Lydia hadn't been hurt or taken by the same person as the other children, but nonetheless the town gathered to watch solemnly as her painting was hung next to her boyfriend's, the gleam of intelligence in her eyes making the painting seem almost alive, just like all the others.

People were more careful after that, and it was months until anybody went anywhere on their own.

It was too late fore these seven, but maybe other children could still stay safe.

...

Stiles can't actually remember much between the months of March and June the year he turned sixteen. He can't remember much at all.

What he can remember is Mrs McCall turning up one night, crying hysterically because Scott hadn't come home from work, and wasn't answering his phone.

He can remember staring at her in a numb sort of horror before he walked over to the drawer, pulled out a candle, placed it next to the others, and lit it with a shaking hand.

After that his memory goes fuzzy round the edges, and he can only remember bits and pieces up until June.

When he tries, he gets clips of hospital visits, and hushed whispers, and _paintingpaintingpainting_.

His painting's of Scott took a whole month till they were done, but by the time they were, they looked so life-like that people half expected them to start talking.

He had painted one picture for the memorial, and then one for Mrs McCall, with pictures of Scott from when he was only five years old right up till he went missing at sixteen.

The last one he paints hangs in his room, of him and Scott age eight, arms flung around each other as they grin identical gap tooth smiles.

When he goes to visit the memorial after he finally snaps out of it, nobody comments on his time as a zombie, and nobody comments on the eighth painting near the memorial and how it's unfinished.

Unlike all the others, Scott's has no name, no date he went missing under the portrait, and the word 'safe' is not printed above his head. The town chip in and get a plaque engraved to say all those things instead, hanging it just below the portrait.

They all understand why Stiles couldn't bring himself to write them in.

...

When Danny Mahealani disappeared, the FBI were bought in.

The feds swarmed the town, and just like with every other case, they found nothing at all. The missing children were featured in national papers and on the news, and for a while, the town was a hotspot for skeezy reporters with too white smiles. The town took this as an insult of sorts, and froze the reporters out, refusing to say anything to them, save for 'get lost'.

Rather than drive people apart and cause them to all distrust and hate one and other, the town grew closer with each childs disappearance, closing ranks on itself and becoming more isolated from the rest of the world.

It was believed by all that the person responsible for the disappearance of these children couldn't be a local - simply because they refused to believe that someone amongst their own could steal and possibly kill nine children.

The candles still burned each and every night, in each and every household. Even the few Hotels, Motels, and Inns lit candles in the windows at night, a light to call the lost children home.

Stiles began to paint Danny the day after he went missing, finishing the portrait within a week. The entire town held a midnight mass for the nine lost children, including even the FBI agents, tourists and reporters in the ceremony.

Danny's portrait was hung while the town watched silently and sadly, another face to add to a wall that felt like a now constant blow to them all.

As with Scott's portrait, Danny's remained unfinished, hanging on the wall with a plaque instead of words written in Scotts careful hand.

Friends and family members went up front to speak about each of the children, and eventually Stiles stepped forward.

"The paintings were Scott's idea. He used to think he was stupid... but this was brilliant, and even he knew it. He wanted a way to inspire hope I guess, and so he got the idea out that as long as these paintings were safe... the kids would be too. So I painted and painted and painted till they looked as perfect as I could get them, and he finished them off by writting on them. In case you were unaware, Scott is that floppy haired looking dope in the eigth painting, and he was probably the best person I've ever met. Didn't have mean bone in his body, and he cared about everyone, human or animal, the sap. I knew all the others save Laura and Derek and... I would give anything to have Scott be right about the paintings keeping them safe. Every night since the Hales, I light candles in my window for them, and I know the rest of you do too. Letting them know, wherever they are, that no matter what, this town is their home. And always will be."

...

Stiles had been hanging washing outside one afternoon not long after the midnight mass, when a man stepped out of the shadows of the forest his yard opened into.

For a moment, Stiles heart had pounded in terror, because he did not know this man, and he knew everybody in town, but then he got a good look at the mans eyes.

They were narowed, and yet still seemed childlike, almost like the person they belonged to hadn't quite mastered growing up, and probably never would.

Stiles knew those eyes.

He had drawn them countless times, agonized over painting them, struggled to incorperate the multiple hues of blues and greens and golds and what felt like a billion other colours he had never seen anyones eyes before.

These eyes belonged to Derek Hale, and Stiles momentarily hated himself for his first thought being 'well he grew up very nicely, I'll take one of him please, clothes not preferred'.

The two of them just stood there for a second, before Stiles finally spoke with a calm he didn't posses, feeling slightly proud over how even he was able to keep his voice.

"You weren't kidnapped were you?" Derek shook his head.

"And neither were the others?" Derek hesitated, and so Stiles changed his question.

"Nobody is forcing them to stay away?" This time Derek shook his head very adamantly, and Stiles felt his body relax.

His mind was buzzing with a million questions, about how and why and where and when and what and who and if's and but's and maybe's but before he could voice a single one, Derek cleared his throat.

"We went to the mass. We saw you. And the paintings." His voice was guarded, and Stiles smiled lightly in encouragement. Derek seemed frustrated, and ran a hand through his hair before speaking again.

"We just... Scott said you were good with weird and researching, and the others agreed, and Danny said you were wrecked and we just..." He trailed off and a lightbulb dinged in Stiles head.

"And you want me... to run away with you? To come join the ranks of the missing children?" He asked, and his heart jolted when Derek nodded tersely.

Stiles stayed silent for a moment - thinking - and as he did so, he finally noted Derek's appearance.

He was sort of filthy, streaked liberally with dirt and other unidentifiable substances. He wore a ratty and stained shirt that was worn so thin it was practically invisible, and a pair of the most raged sweats he had ever seen, patched up in places with clumsy stitching and - was that ductape?!

His feet were bare and grime covered, that black hair was a matted tangle, and to top it all off a leather jacket was stretched tight around his shoulders, darker patches on the arms leading Stiles to believe it belonged to some sort of biker before Derek aquired it.

"Derek, I know this sounds weird, but come and have a shower if you want. Clean up and all. My dad's gone for another few hours, and nobody will see you if you stick to the downstairs bathroom." he said it quietly, and watched surprise light up Derek's face, followed by suspicion and... longing?

Sensing the refusal before Derek could voice it, he gestured for the man to follow him and slipped inside, padding upstairs.

He grabbed a bag from his room and began to shove clothes in he wouldn't miss, grabbing some of his mothers old things from the spare room, including a hair brush and a small sewing kit. He stuffed a blanket in for good measure, and then grabbed another bag, realising all the others must be in the same sort of state as Derek.

This he filled with all the soap and shampoo he thought his father wouldn't miss, and a few wash cloths and towels.

Derek watched him do all this without a word, eyes tracking Stiles movements with interest, brows arching when Stiles added a small bottle of his mothers least favourite perfume. His dad wouldn't notice any of this stuff gone unless Stiles mentioned it, and he could easily replace it all anyway.

He gave the bags to Derek and then looked him directly into those strange and beautiful eyes.

For a moment, he thought he saw an impossibly brilliant scarlett flash in them, but he shrugged it off.

"I want to go. More than anything I want to go with you, and see Scott and the others, but I can't right now. Just... Keep them safe?" He asked, realising suddenly that in his head, these kids were exactly that.

Kids.

He had completely forgotten that most of them were his age, with the Hale siblings being six and four years older. Legal aults now.

He wasn't sure what he expected Derek to do - protest, ask why, shout in joy - but instead the man just nodded, and walked over to Stiles window.

He eyed the candles there with a look Stiles didn't understand, and then - holy shit - dove outside head first.

Stiles yelped and dashed to the window, but rather than find the mangled body of a man he had known all his life, but only just met, he saw Derek slip back into the forest.

That night after he lit the candles, Stiles went to his room and drew the missing children again, only this time he drew them the way he thought they'd look now.

In the distance, wolves howled.

...

*So that was my three o'clock in the morning attempt at filling an anons AU. I finished it here, but I have a kind of idea about continuing it in another fic later on. A sequel I guess, though I can't promise anything.


End file.
